


Let Me Slip Off The Last of Your Innocence

by MidnightSoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexuality, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Bisexuality, Communication Issues, Dancer Sherlock, Demisexuality, Drinking, First Meeting, Football Captain John Watson, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightSoon/pseuds/MidnightSoon
Summary: Sherlock is the newest dance team member and as such he's . He hates going to parties and having to meet strangers, until he meets the university's football captain, John Watson.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	Let Me Slip Off The Last of Your Innocence

Sherlock hates being here. 

Five minutes in and he’s already looking for a corner to escape to. 

He doesn’t like strangers and he hates large rowdy parties even more. But Irene had told him in no uncertain terms he would be cut from the dance team if he didn’t attend tonight’s post-game party. It’s the first football game of the season and the Reichenbach Bulls having won handily means all dancers and cheerleaders are expected to attend their victory celebration. 

That Sherlock is only a freshman and has already made it onto the varsity team is remarkable enough, practically unheard of, but it means his position is more tenuous than most, as Irene Adler, their team leader, likes to remind him daily. Dealing with jealousy and backstabbing is as part of Sherlock’s routine now as his warm-up exercises. He can deal with that sort of thing; he dealt with it all through high school after all. But it’s Irene’s devilish smirk anytime he does something out of line that twists his nerves. He’s dangling from a thin piece of string and above him Irene’s holding a pair of scissors. 

Luckily, Coach Lestrade’s house is enormous, which means plenty of alcoves and bedrooms and other places for Sherlock to sneak off to. 

He’s just made it up to the third floor, having only having gotten groped twice, and sees several possible options for empty rooms when a girl’s hand wraps around his wrist. 

“There you are, Sherly. I’ve got orders to get you nice and plastered.” Janine smirks. 

Janine is the closest thing he has to a friend on the team, but too often Sherlock feels like she’s using him for some unknown purpose. Like now, where she all but drags him down to the master kitchen where she shoves a shot glass of something dark and disgusting into his hand. Looking around he feels nearly half a dozen pair of eyes on him and a few more trickle in upon seeing him enter. He blushes a bit as he, along with the rest of the dance team members, are still in their dance ensemble that they wore for the half-time show: a sparkly red and silver number. Sherlock, who normally loves nothing more than to show off on the field or on the stage or a dance floor, feels downright silly now wearing such a skimpy costume amongst the football players and other boys who are giving him lecherous looks.

“Come on, posh boy, bottoms up.” Janine says with a knowing wink.

It tastes even more nasty than it smells. He starts coughing. Janine and the players all chuckle as Sherlock coughs harder now, bent double, the concoction burning his throat as it goes down. 

“Poor baby,” she croons in a fake voice. “Here ya, go. This will make you feel better.” She pushes another drink up to his lips.

Sherlock pulls away, nose scrunching up. “If you think I’m going to take another drink of that vile liquid you’re dumber than you look.” He says between breaths. 

Her simpering smile falls like a hammer. “Careful there sweet cheeks. You don’t want me to report back to Irene how naughty you were. She’ll cut you faster than you can say ‘pirouette.’” 

Perhaps it’s the liquor, or perhaps it’s the exhaustion of pretending to be friends with someone so clearly odious as she is, but something in him breaks. 

“Go ahead. Go ahead and tell her to kick me off the team.” Sherlock’s voice rises in pitch as he becomes more vociferous. “You’ll all be losing the best dancer and she knows it. Get rid of me and what, keep you? You can barely do a split and my dog has more rhythm -”

“You little fucking whore,” Janine spits. Her hand slaps Sherlock’s pale cheek, strong enough to swipe his head to the slide. It hurts, but in the daze of the alcohol and the glory of finally telling her off, he doesn’t feel the full impact. 

“No - not me, Janine. That would be you.” He glances around the men in the room and quickly deduces. “Let’s see. You and you and you - “ He smirks, giggling as he goes around the room, pointing out several of them. “Let’s be honest if anyone in this room is a whore, Janine, that’d be you.” 

Janine snarls. She launches herself to attack him but Sherlock staggers back just in time to escape her second strike. He stumbles, though, quite thoroughly, and falls backwards onto something large and hard and very, very warm. It’s a chest - a man’s chest, which, he’s guessing must be attached to the two strong hands that suddenly enclose around his hips, holding him upright. 

“Steady there.” A voice rumbles in his ear. It has a deep, gravelly pitch to it that is both sexy and comforting, the combination immediately sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine and flank. Unbidden, he inhales the spicy scent of his cologne; it adds to his already spinning head.

“Oi’ Watson, where’ve you been, mate?” One of the boys in the kitchen hollars. The others grin and whoop. 

Sherlock wiggles his hips once he knows he won’t fall and the man eventually gets the idea and releases him. He quickly spins around, ready to give this Watson a piece of his mind when he’s struck momentarily speechless, his mouth falling open. Before him is the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen in his life. 

A smiling, rugged face with broad, handsome features and navy blue eyes with hair a mix of all types of browns, mostly light and medium. But so many shades, oh Sherlock wishes he could spend his lifetime naming each color of each thick short strand. 

The man is wearing a black leather donkey jacket over a tight hunter-green checkered shirt. He looks attractive and casual and Sherlock blushes like a schoolgirl at how ridiculous he must look in his slutty outfit in comparison.

“I had to pick up Murray, Sanford and Jones. Brought another keg if we need it, too.” The man says these words to his fellow players but his eyes don’t leave Sherlock’s body, studying him, up and down, from his pale face, to his small frame, and _all_ the way down his long skinny legs, and back up again. Any other man doing such a thing would make him feel dirty, but there’s such a kind expression in this man’s eyes, he doesn’t ogled for the sake of making sexual advances. He stares because he’s genuinely appreciating; and Sherlock feels genuinely appraised and praised. 

It’s being exposed but in the most thrilling and nerve-wracking and delightful way. 

He bites his bottom lip and squirms, but equally can’t seem to tear his eyes away from this young man’s powerful body and tanned face.

A wave of dizziness overcomes him and he has to let the wall hold him up

_Is this what liquor does to people?_

“John!” A woman’s voice suddenly squeals from behind the man — er, John. 

A head of blonde curls pops up. Sherlock rolls his eyes. It’s Mary Morstan. She’s one of those girls who does cheerleading, dance, color guard, rotating around as the male athletic schedule dictates. Right now she’s a cheerleader, dressed in her cheerleading outfit, a red and black skirt of the university’ colors and a halter top plunging low enough to give ample view of the tops of her breasts. Sherlock hates to admit it, but having seen her at dance practice a time or two, she’s probably the second best dancer in the entire university. 

She walks up behind John and places a perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder in an unmistakably possessive gesture. 

“Oh John, darling. You’re here finally. Good. I have a special surprise for you.” She purrs. “Here now, take this off.” She pulls off his leather jacket and tosses it AJ, one of her minions, her hand goes right back to John’s shoulder and Sherlock doesn’t miss how the knuckles go nearly white from the pressure she uses to try and pull John around so he faces her. Sherlock feels victorious shiver when it doesn’t work.

“That’s quite a mark you’ve got there. Looks like the skin’s broken.” John says, not unkindly, and completely ignoring Mary. His hand rises and comes oh so close to Sherlock’s pale face, hovering a centimeter away, stopping itself from touching. Sherlock blinks and blinks and blinks and his mind momentarily stops working. A bloom of something bright, something new, something dangerous, flares in his stomach at this man’s attention. 

John’s eyes suddenly narrow, his brow furrows in anger. “Did someone hit you?” He looks over at the pack of players lounging around the kitchen area. They immediately scramble and exclaim their innocence. 

Finally Janine pipes up. “Oh that was nothing but a little spat between dance team members. Don’t worry about it.” She says dismissively. “Sherly here was just being a little brat. Weren’t you, dear?” 

John gives her a steely look and she sputters on. “We were just trying to be nice to the boy and give him a drink. He flipped out on us and started verbally abusing me.” She adds defensively.

Sherlock glares at her and she glares right back. 

John doesn’t seem to buy it. He goes back to addressing the young men. “Oh, I see. I get it now. You guys thought it would be funny to get him drunk. And then what? Throw him to the wolves. The boy’s clearly already had too many. What the fuck were you thinking?” 

With the exception of his mom and his mom alone, no one has ever defended Sherlock like this. He bites his bottom lip and turns his head, doing his utmost best not to blush. 

“Drunk? Oh please. He only had a single shot.” Janine exclaims, looking around the room for the other boys’ approval.

John shakes his head and growls. “No way he’s only had one drink. Just look at him, he can barely stand up straight.” 

Sherlock braces a hand against the wall behind him as inconspicuous as he can. His mind whirrs to calculate the situation. Should he lie? He should just lie. John believes him completely. Going by their humbled expressions and turned-away faces, it doesn’t look like the other players are going to say anything. It’s his word against Janine’s. 

So how many should he say then? Eight - no that’s too high. Five? Sounds made up. Six then - ah yes six sounds reasonable.

Right then John turns back to look at him. “How many drinks have you had? It’s all right. You can tell me the truth. No one is going to judge you.” 

Sherlock’s mouth falls open slightly. If it had been any other person he’d have lied on the spot. He’s rather good at lying and this John Watson, though he may be extremely good-looking, appears to be quite gullible. 

But then... those eyes. Those deep cobalt eyes, so kind and so trusting, meet Sherlock’s light blue ones, and before he can stop himself… “One.” He murmurs, ducking his head to his chest.

“See!” Janine screams triumphantly. “I told you. The boy’s just a lightweight.” 

He glances up to see John looking back at him, not in mockery but understanding; he’s miling gently. There’s stubble on his cheek. Sherlock deduces that he clearly shaved before coming here but he was in a rush, there are several places he missed. Sherlock wonders idly what it would feel to have that stubble rake across his face if they kissed ----

He’s snatched away from the daydream by a female hand grabbing his wrist. This time, it’s Mary’s. 

“Enough of all this nonsense. Sherlock, I happen to know Irene wants you out back with the lower classmen. She’s got a meet-and-greet planned for you there.”

_Oh God._

Sherlock feels a wave of nausea sweep over him. This is what he was afraid of: entertaining a bunch of dimwitted neanderthals. Strangely enough, John should technically fit in that odious category, he thinks distantly. But he doesn’t really belong there. No, not quite. 

He tries to yank his hand back but is once again overcome with another wave of dizziness and Mary’s grip is surprisingly strong. The crowd is gathering at this point, making it harder for them to maneuver. Evidently John’s presence has jump-started a commotion of sorts. People are shoving at him and blocking their exit through the hallway. Undeterred, however, Mary continues pulling him with her, and Sherlock quickly turns back to look at those gorgeous ocean blue eyes one last time. 

John must see the silent plea there because the next thing he knows the grip on his wrist lifts and a broad hand rests across the small of his back, steering him back to the kitchen area. 

“What are you doing, John?” Mary’s voice is sharp as a tack. Sherlock notes a slight flinch John makes at the tone she uses upon saying name. Thankfully his steadfastness seems dauntless.

“He’s in no state to _entertain_ Mary.” John’s voice is dark and gruff. He drags Sherlock closer to him. Once more Sherlock feels the radiating heat and inhales the intoxicating musk of the man. He responds immediately, his eyes falling closed as John puts a strong arm around him, a bloom of warmth filling him. His body responds to John’s solid presence by relaxing immediately. 

More people crowd in around them. More people and more voices. This time they’re calling for John. “Yo Watson, Coach wants us downstairs.” 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open to find John looking distraught. “Fine. Gimme a second. I’ll be there shortly.” 

He takes a deep breath and steps back, out from the gloriously strong arms, shaking his curly head. He feels like a fool. Keeping John from doing his duty. _You should be ashamed of yourself._ Irene’s voice is clear as a bell in his head. It’s one thing that has been painfully made clear to him since day one. Duty to the team comes before everything else. And while Sherlock doesn’t go in for such militaristic attitudes, it’s quite clear John Watson does. 

“I’m fine. Go on. I’ll be fine.” He slurs slightly but otherwise he’s quite proud of the resolve in his voice. 

John’s brow knit in confusion, his shoulders rising. “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you alone like this.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Watson. We’ll take care of doll baby here.” Two of the guys from the kitchen suddenly emerge on either side of him and take a hold of different parts of Sherlock’s body, drawing him inside the kitchen and towards the far back table in an alcove. He can feel the distance between he and John grow, and hears a rush of people fill in that distance. Sherlock sighs. Surely it can’t be all that bad. Perhaps John will come back soon. He’s dealt with idiotic dancers and gymnasts all his life. These dullards can’t be much worse. Just as he thinks this, one of them grabs at the globes of his ass. 

Sherlock yelps and shoves the guy as hard as he can, dislodging himself momentarily.

There’s a loud snarling sound behind him. “Like fuck you will.” In a flash, John is back at Sherlock’s side, and this time Sherlock doesn’t need to be drawn close; he instinctively leans against the young man’s muscular frame, ready to melt into it, but abruptly Sherlock feels two hands tucking themselves behind his upper thighs and lifting him clear up off the ground. Sherlock gives a startled squeak that quickly resolves into a small giggle, either from the shock of the action or alcohol in his system or both. 

He’s been lifted plenty of times in his life, a career of gymnastics and dance and ballet will do that to any child, but never has he been picked up and carried in such a smooth show of strength. There’s a split second where his legs dangle in between them, and then, as if acting on their own accord they fall open, wide to accommodate John’s form, and then wrap themselves around the man’s middle.

With that John carries Sherlock out through the back entrance of the kitchen, pushing past the now maddening horde of teens and young adults and even a few middle-aged adults, all shouting things to each other or to John or to Sherlock. Sherlock blocks them out all too easily, giddily grinning the whole way, and, going by the broad grin on John’s face, he does too. 

***

He takes Sherlock upstairs, still holding him effortlessly. After the initial rush of everything before Sherlock is able to pick up on small details about John: like the scent of whisky and leather and earthy musk. One hand spanning the width of Sherlock’s back, making him feel secure and safer than he ever has before. John’s strong palm holding him up, naturally having to squeeze Sherlock’s plush ass oh so gently. Every now and again when Sherlock drops a little in the hold, before John hefts him back up, how a very prominent, very large bulge digs between Sherlock’s asscheeks. The feeling of the leather and denim across his bare legs and inner thighs. Inside Sherlock’s stomach is doing wild, giddy, audacious summersaults. 10 out of 10.

John doesn’t stop until he reaches the third floor, back where Sherlock almost made it before. The man has clearly been here several times in the past; he walks right up to the second to the last door on the right and opens it. He flicks on the light and Sherlock lets his eyes flutter to adjust to the semi-darkness. His insides are still floating on a mushy boat of happiness when he looks over his shoulder to see a vacant, darkened bedroom. 

It’s not tiny but it’s not large either. Sherlock deduces it must be a seldom used guest room. There’s a full sized bed and a large mirrored dresser, as well as a small half bathroom attached, but otherwise there’s little in the way of furniture. John sits Sherlock on the bathroom counter and sadly Sherlock must drop his legs in response. He’s strangely relieved when John doesn’t move out of the space between his thighs though. 

He reaches inside the top drawer and pulls out a small first aid kit, busying himself by going through what’s available. Sherlock meanwhile is suddenly painfully aware that they’re alone. He’s never been alone with an upper-classman before, let alone a football player. He nibbles at his bottom lip and studies the handsome jock now tearing open an alcohol prep pad. A warm strong hand suddenly cups the back of Sherlock’s neck. 

His dark eyes catch the lagoon blue of the freshman. “How are you feeling? Are you still drunk? Woozy?” He rumbles, brushing his fingers down the nape of Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock shakes his head, trying to shake away the strange cascade of tingles from his neck down his back, a shiver of electricity through his nerves at John’s touch. 

“Hmm. Well let’s attend to your cheek then shall we?”

John gently rubs across the bruised area, sending even more sparks cascading down his spine. 

“Yeah, just as I thought. It’s starting to bleed. She must have hit you pretty hard.” John’s eye-crinkling smile and his deep calming voice is so soothing that if it were not for the fact Sherlock feels obliged to correct his statement he would probably drift off there and then. 

“More likely she nicked me with one of her alarmingly long nails.” He scoffs. 

“Still. Shame she was able to leave any mark at all on such a remarkably pretty face.” His voice is lower with an unmistakable husky tinge to it that causes Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he has to turn away, his face flushing a bright pink. 

_Is he? No he can’t be..._

_John Watson._ Sherlock’s mind reels, going through the names he’s heard of. He’s never cared one whit about the football players to keep them in his memory. He’s always been too busy making sure he outshines all the other dancers. He finds himself now needing, absolutely needing, to recall any information he can about John... _John Watson…._

“You’re John Watson, Captain of the football team!” He cries out unexpectedly. 

John chuckles as he applies some neosporin on the small cut. “That’s right.” 

“You’re a senior, biology and anatomy double major, pre-med if I’m not mistaken. Recently you were dating Nancy Harvey - no Kimberly Shockley - no Anthea Avery…” He blinks rapidly when he catches the look John is giving him. “Sarah Sawyer and Gretchen Paulson, they -” Sherlock swallows. “You get talked about a lot is all. You’re very popular,” he mumbles, blushing furiously.

John’s face turns ruddier at this too, and now it’s his turn to look elsewhere, focusing on removing the wrapper from a small bandaid. 

“Well, I know a little about you, too, you know. You’re Sherlock Holmes, and you’re new to the varsity team, yeah? You’re also a freshman which is incredible.” He looks right into Sherlock’s eyes when he adds, “But then anyone having seen you dance knows what an astonishing dancer you are.” 

Sherlock’s face skips right past any shade of pink and jumps straight to cherry red. “You’ve seen me dance?” He splutters with a rather manic, strangled sound, blushing and looking away from John’s gaze. 

“Yeah. Er, I mean sure, here and there, you know.” 

Sherlock wants to question him further, ask him for each precise routine he was performing, when and where, so he can go back and try and remember if that instance was indeed one of his better performances. What if it was lackluster? What if John hasn’t even seen him at his peek abilities? Sherlock is overcome with the desire to show off to John right now in this bedroom. There’s not a ton of room for most things but he can show him how flexible he is. Flips and twists and such. That would mean leaving the divine heat of John’s presence, however, and Sherlock isn’t ready to do that. He’s also still rather tipsy and he’s afraid of making even the smallest mistake in front of John. 

“I really am the best dancer on the team. Best out of the whole university really.” He exclaims, eager to reinforce John’s impression of him. 

It backfires. Rather than looking _more impressed_ John quirks his mouth and his eyebrows form a single line. 

Great. Now Sherlock is stuck. What he said is only the very obvious truth but then John does seem like one of those humble types. Sherlock just listed off a number of his previous girlfriends - and they were just the ones he heard them talk about since the semester started - but John had appeared embarrassed more than anything, very rare for a jock of his position. 

Sherlock tries again. 

“Probably because most of the others only took a year or so of gymnastics, if that. I doubt Janine even knows how to do a roundoff.”

John hums. “I wonder - I mean, well, since you’re such a better gymnast and all, shouldn’t you be on the cheerleading team instead?” 

The question catches Sherlock fantastically off-guard and his mouth drops open. John certainly didn’t mean to offend but Sherlock can’t help but sit back, stiffer than before. He knows very well that cheerleading takes greater proficiency and skill in certain areas than those required by dance. Sherlock’s mind suddenly conjures up unbidden images of Mary performing incredible aerial and acrobatic stunts and John slack-jawed and awed by her. 

And yes, in truth, one of the reasons he chose Reichenbach University was the renown of their dance team, which incorporates more tumbling and leaping skills than most others. Even still, there’s no denying cheerleading is a more athletic sport. But he couldn’t imagine ever _not_ dancing. Dancing… dancing is _special._

“I’ve always been a dancer,” he states plainly, fiddling with a clump of silver sequins that got twisted in the other direction. “Ballet, even before gymnastics. Since before I can remember.” He meets John’s eyes again. “Dancing I’ll have you know is more than just hitting a flip or a somersault.” He says defensively. “It’s about ebb and flow and the artistry of the dancer, it’s fluidity and gracefulness, rhythm with the music.” 

John splutters in his haste to apologize. “No - no.” Sherlock’s eyebrow lifts “Yes. I mean, yes. God yes, dancing is amazing. _Your_ dancing is amazing. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, I just meant… I just thought… cheerleading is usually so sought after.”

Sherlock bites back his follow-up, which is that cheerleaders are also known to be vain and selfish and the school sluts for football team. He’s pretty sure saying such things when all the girls he recently named are in fact cheerleaders is probably a _bit not good._

“Anyways, let’s finish fixing you up.” John pulls off the ends of the band aid he’s been holding and reaches for his cheek. Sherlock pulls back.

“What are you doing?” He blinks.

“Putting a bandaid on the cut - what do you mean what am I doing?” 

“Is it still bleeding?”

“Huh? No, but don’t you want to cover it up?” 

“With an ugly bandaid? No thank you.” His slender hand pushes John’s away. “I’ll take the abrasion.” He looks over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror. There’s a tiny line of red surrounded by a faint hue of pink where her hand struck his cheek, glistening slightly from the neosporin. Altogether it looks artfully done. “Besides, I think I look rather good like actually.” 

John chuckles deeply as he tosses away the bandaid. “You’re a vain little tart, aren’t you?” But there’s no heat to his words and Sherlock finds himself bursting into small, tickled giggles as well. 

They remain smiling at one another even after the laughter passes in a moment of affectionate silence. There’s a sheen of sweat across John’s forehead and a dark patch underneath each of his arms. Observing him, Sherlock sees some of his red and white sequins have become attached to his green checkered shirt. 

“Oh! Sorry, this costume is as cheap as Irene’s hair extensions.” He breaks into high pitched laughter as he starts brushing them away, floating and giddy on the alcohol, his own joke, and being able to touch the Captain like this. He doesn’t miss how John’s hard abdominal muscles clench and tense underneath. 

“I don’t mind.” Sherlock’s eyes leap up at that, John’s guttural voice triggering something deliciously unfamiliar and sensual inside his stomach. John’s eyes are dark, twinkling suggestively. Sherlock swallows. 

“Though, they do look much better on you.” John rumbles, stepping closer, his hands wrap around each long pale leg, mid-thigh. 

Sherlock gasps. The heat John radiates is like a furnace. His hands rest there, not squeezing, just enfolding loosely. He doesn’t have long fingers but his palms are broad and his fingers thick and strong, and Sherlock swears he can sense each small callous. The tanned skin makes for a beautiful contrast against the smooth white of Sherlock’s legs. 

“Fuck. You’re so pretty.” John says softly, almost reverently, before licking his lips. Sherlock can’t help but stare at them. They’re thin and dusky colored and Sherlock wants them to kiss him so badly he can taste the passion. 

He leans over, not even realizing he’s doing it. John shifts closer too until their mouths are less than an inch away from each other. Sherlock lets his eyes fall closed, dying of expectation for his first kiss. 

John pulls away suddenly, and Sherlock’s eyes flutter open to find the man looking of all things abashed. 

_How dare he?_ Anger flickers inside the boy, pushing him to exclaim, “Why did you stop?”

“Because you’re still drunk, that’s why.” John says plainly.

Sherlock’s nose crinkles in anger. “That doesn’t mean anything.” He spits.

“Yes, it does. It means I’m taking advantage of you.” John sounds frustratingly nonchalant, as if he’s lecturing to a small child. 

“Maybe I _want_ you to take advantage of me, you idiot.” 

John gives a frustrated exhale through his nose. “What? You can’t mean that. You’re drunk, or inhibited at the very least.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh please.” He pushes at John’s shoulder. He can’t believe he was this close to having the man of his dreams kiss him. “Let me down. I want to get down.” His voice rises as he continues shoving at the man’s chest, to no avail; John might as well be a stubborn bull for all the good it does. His dark eyes narrow, meeting Sherlock’s own furious glare.

“Hold on, Sherlock. Stop that. I’ll let you down but we need to talk first.” 

“Talk!” He practically shrieks. “We’ve been talking for the last twenty minutes. Then you decided to be an idiot. Now. Let. Me. Down.” He hits John square in that stupid wide jaw of his but the jock doesn’t yield an inch, the muscle there just twitching instead. 

“Will you stop acting crazy for one second,” John growls. “All I want to say if for you to be careful.” His mouth is a tight grimace when he adds, “You don’t know how bad some of theses parties can get.”

“Fuck you. I’m not a child.” He hisses.

“No, but you are younger than most kids here. Seriously, you look about 12. How are you already in college?"

He rolls his pale blue eyes. “That’s because I’m smart, cleverer than any louts in the house to be sure. I skipped a few grades if you must know."

John's brows draw close. "Doesn't matter. You are young. Too young to be drunk and messing with this crowd."

"I am not drunk." He snaps. "And if you think I am, and if you think it makes you look bad to be around a drunk dancer, then let me go.” 

A flash of real anger swipes across John’s features before he shouts, “Fine.”

He steps back and Sherlock immediately hops off the counter, and wobbles so minutely he doubts John even notices. 

“You should lie down until your head is no longer fuzzy.” Crap. He did notice then. 

“ _You_ should lie down,” he retorts, flushing at such a lame sounding come-back. “I think _I_ should have another drink.” He struts up to the door, his firm ass cheeks swaying with his model-walk, as John keeps in step right behind him. 

He flings open the door to the hateful sounds of the jocks and girls screaming below and another fog comes inside his head.

Meanwhile, John glares and saunters right by him. He gets several steps ahead when he stops and turns. “Maybe it’s a good thing you aren’t a cheerleader after all.” He grits thickly before continuing down the hallway. 

Sherlock gasps. _What the hell was that supposed to mean?_

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are love. 
> 
> I would like to know if I should continue this so let me know what you think. :)


End file.
